


The kiln god

by Runwildwithme (NectarinesAndSourThings)



Series: Tales from the Else [2]
Category: Elsewhere University (Webcomic)
Genre: Asexual Character, Birth Control, Cannibalism, Ceramics, Deals, Murder, Oh, One Shot, Other, POINT BEING: people get eaten. in the not fun way., Protection, Stolen away, Taken, Traditions, Wild Hunt, also: no longer a oneshot!! go me!, and panic attacks, bet those weren't tags y'all were expecting, but. uh. also:, ceramic traditions, i mean. sort of? the thing eating people is deffo not human, making deals, mention of anxiety medication, most of it is just implied tho!!!, pottery, so YMMV re the cannibalism thing., so much murder, uh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-12
Updated: 2018-01-26
Packaged: 2018-10-03 08:07:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10239803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NectarinesAndSourThings/pseuds/Runwildwithme
Summary: Part One: There is a thing that lives in the forest behind the ceramic studio- much nicer now that there's a studio than it was before- that deals in wasted potential.Out late, trying to escape the Wild Hunt, Cranberry negotiates.Part Two: Before the kiln god was a kiln god, it was, nevertheless, an inhabitant of EU, though not yet a god. This is the end of that particular story.





	1. Chapter 1

There is a thing, at Elsewhere U, that deals in might-have-beens. In wasted chances. In ruined potential. 

 

It is not fey, not quite. It definitely isn't human, though it approximates the shape of one more closely than most. Indeed, it is only ever so slightly off- tall, but not too tall; handsome, but not otherworldly; bright, glittering eyes, but not quite lit from inside. It even stays consistent in its appearance: androgynous, chin length feathery blond hair, bright brown eyes. Generally, it wears a plaid shirt and a pair of jeans. 

 

Of those who know about it, some think it came from across the seas, brought here like so much luggage with an international student. Others think it some form of demon, or twisted spirit. Others say it crawled out of the pages of a book, well loved enough that the monsters came to life.  

 

The potters, the sculptors, the ceramicists, however, care not for where it came from, only that it is: they speak of it  _ fondly  _ and call it a kiln god, call it  _ their  _ kiln god- they craft intricate pieces, brightly colored, painstakingly carved and glazed, bring their masterpieces to it. If it likes the pieces, the artists smash them down upon the ground to shatter, take not even a shard with them when they leave, and for the next semester their kilns fire evenly and their pieces don't crack. 

 

Cranberry had taken a pottery class in her freshman year, heard the stories: apparently, before Elsewhere U had a ceramics program, the thing was  _ malicious _ in its actions- not just reveling in missed opportunities but creating them. Since the potters started paying tribute, though, it hasn't stolen away (read: eaten) a single student, and all the deals she's heard about have been downright generous. One can afford generosity when one is well-fed. 

 

Cranberry doesn't care. She just knows that the thing exists, that it can be found in the woods behind the ceramic studio, and that the hounds are howling behind her. 

 

It knows when it's being looked for, everyone agrees. She ducks into the woods, panting, thinks hard:  _ I want to make a deal with the kiln god. _

 

Each step she takes, she can feel pottery shards crunching underfoot, and when she looks, she sees little figurines- dragons and lions and turtles and monsters- sitting on branches. Kiln guardians, made by the ceramic students and left on top of kilns, collected by the kiln god after a few firings. Hers had been lumpy, and barely recognizable as a penguin, but the colors had been bright enough to call it pretty. Only the actual potters make sacrifices out of their best works, but everyone in the pottery classes makes kiln guardians. She wonders if it still has the one she made. 

 

She wonders if the kiln god remembers her. 

 

Cranberry takes another step, thinks again:  _ I want to make a deal.  _

 

The howls are getting closer, she can just barely hear the pounding of hoof beats, and her limbs tremble with the urge to run, run,  _ run.  _

 

She fights her useless instincts back- not like she can outrun the hounds or the horses. 

 

The kiln god steps out from behind a tree and  _ smiles.  _

 

“Have you come to make a deal with me, you who runs from the Wild Hunt?’ It asks, and the howling sounds suddenly distant. Generous, that, Cranberry thinks. Maybe it does still have her penguin. 

 

Cranberry nods, takes a deep breath. 

 

‘You're the one who feeds on wasted chances, yeah?’

 

It tilts its head, inclines its head. 

 

‘Yes. What do you offer me?’

 

‘I offer my presence, for as long as the wild hunt rides tonight. I would demonstrate, if I could take you hand for a moment?’

 

The kiln god considers her for a long moment, and Cranberry fears, briefly, that it will say no, that it isn't hungry, that she isn't enough-

 

It stretches out a too spindly hand, and Cranberry presses a pill bottle into it, waits for it to understand.

 

It  _ hmmm _ s _ ,  _ says, “For, hm, restoring balance to a mind?” Which. Well. Yes, sure anti-anxiety meds, for restoring balance. That's not inaccurate. She gesture for its other hand, and it obliges.  Cranberry presses the kiln god’s palm against the inside of her left forearm. 

 

It's brow furrows, then smoothes

 

“Ahh. You are barren, so long as the medicine resides within you.” That's as good a way of explaining birth control as any, Cranberry supposes. It sounds interested, but only idly. 

 

She takes its hand, presses it to the lower curve of her stomach. Again, it's brows furrow in concentration, nostrils flare as it searches for the potential going unfulfilled. 

 

‘You have not yet laid with another,’ it says, a bit confused but more interested now. The kiln god knows she’s building to something. She keeps it's hand there, until it goes on. 

 

‘You are bleeding...?” It says, wondering if this is what she means. 

 

Cranberry takes its hand from her stomach, presses it to the crown of her head. Briefly, her vision greys out as it plucks a word, plucks understanding, from her mind. 

 

“The pills are for evening out my anxiety. The medicine in my arm is supposed to keep me from... bleeding, let's go with that. The pills make me bleed despite my implant, and I would rather have daily panic attacks than a period once a month.” Cranberry pauses, then adds, “Also, I don't ever want to have sex. I'm asexual. Sex without having to worry about pregnancy is a big reason women go on birth control, fun fact.” 

 

“Oh!” It says, “Oh, I  _ see _ !”  

 

It curls fingers around her face and croons at her, bends down to breath in deeply from the crook of her neck. Cranberry stays stock-still and lets it. 

 

“I offer protection from the Wild Hunt. In exchange, you will stay with me until the moon cycles back to the crescent it is now.”  

 

Cranberry’s breath catches. The kiln god didn't put a time limit on its protection. Still, finals are in three weeks, not four. 

 

“I have examinations I must take for my classes in three weeks.” She tells it. 

 

It  _ hrrrm _ s, then counter offers: “Protection, you stay for a moon cycle, I return you to tomorrow morning once the month has passed. You take pottery classes for as long as you remain here.” 

 

_ Shit _ , Cranberry thinks.  _ Protection, _ generalized. She swallows. 

 

“I can't afford an extra elective each for another five semesters.”

 

Again, the kiln god grumbles. 

 

“Protection, a month, return upon the morning, you will return to stay with me come summer. The classes will not cost you, but you must make a piece for me each semester, in addition to the kiln guardians I take.”

 

_ Holy fuck _ , Cranberry thinks,  _ I might actually live out the night.  _

 

“Are you familiar with the needs of humans?” She asks. 

 

“Yes- food from the human realm and water everyday- more often if temperatures are high or low, or if the human is exerting itself. A third of a day of sleep, each day. The place where it is kept should be neither too hot, nor too cold. Interaction, at least a little each day. Tasks or books or games to entertain itself with. Oh! Opportunity to regularly bathe.” The kiln god rattles off, pleased with itself. 

 

It sounds like a kid trying to prove that they totally know how to take care of a pet. 

 

“And you will ensure I have access to the things I need while I am in your care?” 

 

The kiln god nods. Cranberry can hear the hounds a little more clearly now. Even a god can keep the Wild Hunt at bay for only so long. 

 

“Then we have a deal.”

 

When the Wild Hunt rides through the woods, it is only the crunch of ceramic shards- not screams- that mark its passing. 


	2. The God, Before the Kiln

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before Cranberry, before the Sculptors, the Potters, the Ceramicists, before the Kiln: a tale of becoming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you know, I had more to say about the kiln god!! I am working on Feather right now, but other pieces of Elsewhere want their stories told as well!
> 
> I'm hoping y'all like it ;D

There is a tale told, amongst the sculptors and the potters of Elsewhere. It is not told outside of their own circle, for those of the forbidden major are ever hungry for knowledge, and the potters and sculptors especially know how hunger can transform a thing. Transformation, and the wanting- yes, these are things they know well.

 

The tale is told of the kiln god, of how it came to be, and it goes like this:

 

\--

 

The kiln god does not remember much, from the time before it was a god.

 

It did not come to the university so much as it _became_ at the university- a strange, viscous thing it was, and as to whether it was separated out from the rest of the Else by working or by chance, it remembers not.

 

It was hungry, though. It remembers this.

 

And there was prey. Yes, it remembers this _well._

 

The prey occasionally bit back, but that was a terribly rare occurrence. By the time a human found its way to the not-yet god’s haunts, the devouring was very nearly a mercy.

 

(Nearly.)

 

It found a niche, there, a calling, as so many at Elsewhere do. Wasted chances, unrealized potential, ill-spent fortunes.

 

It _gorged._

 

It was, if not well known, known enough. There were whispers, at the least. And that was good. That was ...was something. It knew not the words, then, but it was well-fed and well-feared, and for a time, that was enough.

 

The prey, however, was capable of learning.

 

And so the prey, even desperate, did not wonder nearly so frequently through its forest, and then not at all, and so it grew to hunger once more.

 

It hunted, then. Left its forest and walked the pathways the prey walked, and _fed._ It took the very best, the very brightest, the most coveted. It was not fae, and so iron did not quite hurt the same way, silver did not quite reveal it, and the paths that it stalked grew to be scent-heavy with dread.

 

And for a time, there existed a holding pattern, and that was nearly enough.

 

(Nearly.)

 

It was careful, in its own way, not to hunt too often, not to take too many, to tread that narrow line where it was known, yes, but not so known as to drive the brightest flames to flickering mediocrity. Just enough fear to flavor, yes, that was the goal, and so only infrequently could it hunt.

 

And it was not _nearly_ enough.

 

In one world, it grew desperate with its hunger, ventured where it shouldn't have, and was devoured in turn.

 

In another, it simply hunted more often, and a pack of prey, twenty girl-children strong and all named for knights, lured it to a trap and and saw it slain.

 

In yet another, it faded to sleep in the dark patch of forest it has claimed, and then faded entirely as the fears and whispers of it waned.

 

In this world, a boy finds it as it hunts - hunger a curse upon it, yes, but not yet so strong that it was not curious.

 

The boy carried something in his arms, a great vessel, large enough around that his hands could not touch, and covered in great splotches of nearly-symmetrical colors, crystalline formations laid upon the curve of the ceramic piece.

 

The boy spoke, tremulously yet true, for he had come to sate the hunter which he feared would next turn its attention to a girl who the boy fancied he loved.  

 

He said that he brought tribute, and asked to speak of it so that the value may be understood.

 

The not-yet god was indeed _very_ curious, for this was a new thing, and so it folded itself so as to give the illusion of reclining, and gave its permission.

 

The boy spoke for... for rather a long time, in the deep of night, on that lonely path, lit only distantly by the ever-watchful lights of the library.

 

He spoke of a craft, an art, a trade, a process of transformation of earth and fire, of stories told and traditions passed down from mentor to student, and on after that, of tribute and offerings and how it must always be the _best_ piece that is given up, that is destroyed.

 

The boy spoke of the many, many hours he had spent learning his craft, and of the subtleties in different firings, of how he had spent many nights awake by a kiln, just to wait with baited breath for another three days to find out if hard work had paid off, of how often it hadn't.

 

Of how, of his many successes, this was by far his best; and if it pleased the not-yet god, he would destroy it here and now, heft it above his head and heave it to the earth to shatter and never be made whole again.

 

And this _appealed_ to it, to have something so very carefully crafted and curated _just_ to be so ruined.

 

And so it indicated that yes, this would be pleasing, and the boy did as he had said he would, and the great crash and the arc of shattered glass and ceramic was indeed _very_ pleasing, and indeed very _filling_ , in such a satisfying way that prey had yet never been.

 

It told the boy this, and the boy smiled and laughed, more than half hysterical in relief, and it shaped itself a bit, to give the impression that it, as well, was smiling.

 

And then it ate the boy, too.

 

\--

 

What, did you forget? This is a tale of _becoming._ I told you: it was hungry then.

 

\--

 

That meal satisfied for a long time. A very long time, longer than any meal ever had, and so it retreated back to the depths of the forest it had grown to think of as its own, to rest and to enjoy the departure of hunger.

 

But all things must end, and still no humans walked the forest where it haunted, and so it began once more to hunt.

 

But the hunting was different now- it had tasted tribute, given willingly, eagerly, gratefully, and where blood and flesh had slaked thirst and satisfied hunger, now neither satiated quite so well.

 

So it wandered the campus, less hunting now than perhaps searching, until it came one night upon a group of students- young, they were, and reveling, but in no such way that it had ever seen a revel before.

 

There was music, yes, and drink, but they were all gathered outside of the protective walls of any building, and they pressed up against a great flaming box to ward off the chill of the night. Frequently, one or another would crouch down at one corner of it to tap at a gauge, and every now or then a scuffle would break out to decide which among them had the privilege of doing it.

 

There were tiny figurines and statues perched on top of the fire-box, and they varied wildly- some were monstrous, others more familiarly animalistic, still more even vaguely humanoid. They all held the stench of belief and bad luck, bad luck held back and hoarded, and though they did not _feel_ the same as the tribute that had been offered... there was something there.

 

It took in the scent of them again, the belief and the gathered ill-luck, and the fire and the gas that fueled it, and the wine from the revel and the songs the prey sang, and the not-yet god was overcome by a sudden urge to _have_ them.

 

Never before had it found something it wanted more than blood and flesh to slake the hunger, never had it found something that would suit.

 

And so it twisted itself out of the shadows where it waited, gave itself a head and neck and shoulders for the prey to look at, and watched as one by one they took notice and fell silent, as hands drifted to talismans and pockets and knives, and when all were silent and still, it spoke.

 

‘On your crate of fire, there sits a many strange and wondered things. What be they?’

 

The one who had last won right to tap at the box spoke.

 

‘They're kiln guardians. We make them to keep away bad luck, to make sure the firing goes well.’

 

A long, long pause, whilst it pondered that.

 

‘I find that I desire them.’ It said.

 

Another one spoke.

 

‘Well, you can't have them. The firing ain't done yet.’

 

A flurry, at that, of alarm and hushed whispers, and they drew each other closer together, closer to the.. the kiln, it supposed.

 

It tilted the bit of itself it had shaped into a head, and asked, ‘After, then?’

 

Another flurry of whispers.

 

‘Why do you want them?’ Kiln-tapper asked.

 

It shrugged.

 

‘They hold belief, hoard ill-luck. I desire them.’

 

‘But _why_?’ He asked.

 

‘I hunger.’ It answered. There was another moment of quiet, of reponses considered and discarded and deliberated upon.

 

And then, abruptly, the rude one realized.

 

‘Oh, _fuck_ ,’ she said, dark skin gleaming gold light of the fires, ‘this is the thing that ate Mark!’ Her voice was thick with anger and grief, made bolder by the susurration of angry, grieved reactions of her fellows.

 

More shuffling and silence, then. More hands on things that were held as though they were meant to be weapons.

 

It realized, slowly, that that was something that apparently required an answer.

 

‘He offered tribute.’

 

‘He _brought_ tribute. He didn't mean to _be_ tribute.’ The rude one snapped.

 

It pondered that, then affected a shrug.

 

‘He did not specify,’

 

It scented the air, found yet more anger than fear, grumbled a bit. That was not, it seemed, a satisfactory answer.

 

‘His offered tribute satisfied, _satiated_ . It was. It was _good_. I did not hunger. Now, I do.’

 

Kiln-tapper, narrow-eyed, spoke slowly: ‘And the kiln guardians would help with that?’

 

‘If they were offered.’ The not-yet god nodded.

 

The rude one made a derogatory noise.

 

‘Why should we give them to you? The firing’s not done. They have a purpose. All you do is kill.’

 

It grumbled again. ‘I _hunt.’_

 

‘That's not better!’ She snapped, and crossed her arms, waiting and expectant.

 

It coiled itself, thinking hard, reached out to the shape of the Else, felt for possibilities.

 

‘They guard the ..firing? From luck, from ill fortune. I could do so. For tribute.’

 

Ahhh, and there had the air changed. Fear yes, anger, yes, but also a touch of _consideration_.

 

‘You won't hunt us?’ She demanded, and it shook its head.

 

‘None who offer tribute.’

 

‘No one who's represented by any who offers tribute _.’_ She counter-offered, sharp.

 

It gave itself features, mimicked her focused expression. ‘None represented, so long as they craft.’

 

‘Define craft.’ She snapped, and it ‘ _hrrrrrm’d,_ at a bit of a loss.

 

Another girl leaned forward, then.

 

‘We could make it so the first project is a kiln guardian? We already talk about the history and the lore.’

 

The rude one and Kiln-Tapper made faces at each other, conversed via strange arcane movements with necks and shoulders. It waited, patient.

 

‘That could work.’ He said, and she nodded.

 

‘The first two weeks of each semester you'll refrain from hunting altogether, and then after that not anyone who has left a kiln guardian, whether you choose to take it or not.’

 

‘I find the accord acceptable.’ It said.

 

Kiln-tapper shifted, suddenly uncomfortable.

 

‘The firing still isn't done,’ he said.

 

‘Something else?’ It offered, and the prey all looked at each other for what felt half an eternity before the rude one stepped forward, shoulders thrown back, head held high.

 

‘I have something.’ She said, plucked her earrings from her ears, and held them out for the nearly-god to see. It drew closer, slowly, so as not to alarm, but need not have worried- the one it called rude was beyond fear, then.

 

When it dre close enough, it saw ceramic beads, carved and brightly colored, strung on wire hooks.

 

‘Here is what I offer,’ she said, and in that, it could taste no anger, no fear, only sorrow.

 

‘Beads,’ she said, ‘Made and shaped and carved by hand, given freely to me as a token, from a boy I might have loved. They are the last gift I will receive from him.’

 

Oh. _Ohhhhhhhh_. Yes. Yes, it thought, breathed deep of grief and hurt and ended possibilities, futures that might have been and for certain now never would, wrapped up so tightly in those bits of jewelry.

 

It nodded, solemn with the sense of something sacred. ‘Yes, that would satisfy.’

 

She laughed a little, hollow, and crouched to place them delicately on the cement. She stared at them as she stood, and then brought a heel down on them with sudden violence, twisted and ground until she could no longer hear the clack and clink and grind of shattered pottery. She did not look back up, when she was done, but stepped backwards until the rest of the group swallowed her up.

 

Kiln-tapper cleared his throat, after the moment passed: ‘The firing will be done in the morning. You can take the kiln guardians then.’

 

It nodded, and departed, well replete and satiated, nothing nearly about it.

 

\--

 

It emerged the next morning, to collect the kiln guardians. More had been put out since just that last night- some raw and delicate, some fired, some glazed - and it nodded to itself, pleased. The potters it had dealt with were already spreading the word, and these new things had been left as a direct result.

 

It took them all, and began to decorate it's forest, placing them on branches, in hollows, among roots. There were not terribly many, when spread among the forest, but there would be more.

 

Yes, there would be more.

 

\--

 

And there were- many more, and more nighttime-revel firings, which it learned were usually crystalline; and day-time bright-quick- _hot_ firings, where the potters used tongs to pull out pieces whilst they were still so hot they glowed, and it learned that these were usually raku, or obvara; and lazy afternoon picnics, with pieces buried under coals and earth and were called pit firings; or week long affairs of constant, frantic stoking of flames for anagama kiln firings, which could last from two to twelve days, depending on how much wood had been gathered, and the ambition of the potters.

 

It learned that the kiln guardians did not like to be taken until they had watched over at least one firing, but after were happy to be placed in the forest.

 

It learned that the potters would welcome it, if it came to coil itself over a kiln during a firing, and after enough of such occurrences the potters gradually realized that when it did _nothing_ cracked, or ran, or failed to properly vitrify, and so it found itself greeted with more and more enthusiasm, especially when they were firing in one of the old ways, which were ever more prone to uncertainty.

 

It learned that the more it looked like the humans, the closer they would let it, and that if it fashioned itself a form that looked very human indeed it would be offered food and drink and a place at the table.

 

And then, very slowly and all of a sudden and without anyone noticing at all, the potters had named it.  

 

\--

 

It is a kiln god. It mayhap wasn’t before, but it sure as hell is now, and so we treat it as such.

 

When we open bottles, we toast _‘To the kiln god!’,_ and when we open kilns, we praise it, and when it walks among us we greet it with smiles on our faces and ceramic dust in our lungs and shards of pieces painstakingly crafted decorating the soles of our shoes.

 

The kiln god isn't hungry, nowadays. It hasn't been for a long, long time, and for so long as it isn't, for so long as you leave guardians, it will look upon you fondly.

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact: anxiety medication can totally interact with birth control. I know this because I was quite happily not having my period with nexplanon and then I started taking cymbalta and my period came back. that was ...fun. 
> 
> ..Like, both medications were still effective! I just. got my period back. :/
> 
> But about the ceramics part of this: the other night, it kinda struck me that- at least in all the studios I've been in in SoCal- potters totally leave offerings and make sacrifices. Its a fairly common thing to walk by a kiln at a college and see all kinds of little figurines perched on top. They are legit called kiln guardians, and you make them and leave them on the kiln to ward off bad luck. 
> 
> And the whole smashing your best piece? Also totally a thing. If you build your own kiln, there's a .. really I can only call it a ritual. Before the first firing, you buy a bottle of liquor for yourself and whoever helped you build it. Right before the firing, you take your best piece so far and smash it down on the ground into a hundred million tiny pieces. And then you and your helper(s) sit by the kiln and drink for the entire first firing, to keep the kiln company. And FYI, firings usually take like 4-6 hours. After that, your kiln will always fire evenly. 
> 
> As for kiln gods, that's always who my potter friends and I joke we're sacrificing things to, so this was born.


End file.
